The Prince
by Ava
Summary: What happens when after a fight Aladdin's son leaves the palace? What happens when he meets a girl out on the streets? What happens when he falls in love?
1. The Fight

A/N: Ok folks here it is, my first ever posted even part way completed story! Please be gentle with me, I don't take criticism well, and any and all flames will be used for roasting marshmallows! Oh and please, please r & r, I'd really appreciate it ; )  
***  
  
A fight could be heard thought the castle corridors. If one followed the voices, they could be found coming from two people, standing in a great hall. One, the youngest, a boy in the process of becoming of man, had dark black hair, a pair of steaming blue eyes the color of the ocean on a bright day, a strong jaw and a straight handsome nose. He stood at about 6' and his body was covered in a loose white shirt, open at the neck, with a fancy vest, embroiled with beads of every color. His pants were simple in fashion yet one could tell they could withstand much stress and were very well made, they were beige in color. His shoes, as well, were simple, but durable and made of good leather.  
  
The second man had the same black hair as the first, but his had streaks of gray in it, indicating he had a good start in the years from the boy in front of him. His eyes, unlike the boys were a deep rich brown, the color of freshly dug earth. And although he had wrinkles on the far corners of his eyes from laughing one could tell he was still young, both in age and in heart, only in his late 30s to early 40s. His jaw was hard and straight, and his nose looked liked it was once like that, as well, but must have been broken, an affect which added a slight bump to it. He was clothed in an off white shirt, buttoned at the neck, loose pants that once must have been white, but from much wear and use were now a light brown, khaki color. He was in very casual dress.  
  
The walls in the hall were 10' tall and on them hung huge tapestries, sewn with gold thread, enough treasure to satisfy even the king of thieves (for a while at least) lay within their folds. The floors were decorated with marble tiles, and the ceiling had been wonderfully arched; held up with beams made of sparkling limestone.  
  
Father and son, or sultan and prince as would probably be more appropriate considering their conversation. They were having yet another argument about how a young price should behave.  
  
"I'm not a child anymore; I'm 17 years old for Allah's sake! I'm sick of being treated like I'm 4. Prince Dekal said; sounding not very pleased at his new predicament. "There is no way that I am going to have two burly, beefy men follow me around all day with swords in their hands; I'm perfectly able of taking care of myself" the prince said with a humph. He was talking about the body his father was going to give him to force him to stay within the palace walls. "Besides its not as if I was in any danger, I had Javad with me after all," the prince said, referring to his monkey (a product of Abu's fling with a Hiyya monkey) using a matter-of-fact tone.  
  
"Oh that's comforting, so you and Javad your monkey snuck out of the palace, and you're telling me not to worry? I suppose it was his idea too hmm?" Aladdin, the sultan said; sounding very angry.  
  
" I will not tolerate my son, and may I mention my only son, and heir to this throne, sneaking out of the palace, and not telling anyone where he is going, or when he plans on coming back."  
  
"Do have any idea how worried about you your mother and I have been? Not to mention Asul, if you could have seen how white his face was when he came into your mother's and my room; finding us in a very compromising position, I might add, and reporting that you had not come to lessons that morning. You are never ever to miss another lesson ever again. Do I make my self clear?"  
  
"I don't see why I have to go to those stupid classes anyway." The prince said, mumbling. "They are so boring, and all he talks about Arabia this, and Arabia that. I'm sick of it. Its not like what he lectures me about has anything to do with today, all the stuff he teaches took place hundreds of years ago!" The prince said; sounding put out at the thought of having to attend Asul's lessons.  
  
"As long as you live under my roof you will obey my rules; and those include going to Asul's lessons, and no sneaking out of the palace."  
  
"But."  
  
"There will be no if, ans, or buts about it. You will not sneak out of the palace. You will not be allowed out of the palace walls and you will attend every class that Asul schedules, no matter how boring they are; I do not care. They are for your own good.  
  
"Fine then maybe I just wouldn't live under your roof any more." The prince said as he stormed away from his father.  
  
"Some day you will thank me for this" Aladdin, the sultan sighed long after his son had walked away. He just hoped it would sooner, rather than later.  
***  
  
Mean while on a dirty little side street in the city of Arabia sat a girl, a "street rat" if you prefer those words. But the girl in question prefers to be called someone who "lives of the street." She was dirty and in great need of a bath, and she knew it, but were on earth would she find clean water; her being someone who "lives of the street" after all.  
  
The girl was to proud to whore, or become a concubine, even though she did have the look, under the layer of grime that presently coated her. Black hair dark as night that, when clean shone as bright as the sun. She also had eyes as green as grass, a petite, elfin like nose that lifted upward slightly at the end to give her a look that was other worldly. Her body was slim, almost too much, from not eating, but when she ate regular meals, which was just about never for her, she filled out quite nicely. She was currently in rags. Wearing a shirt that was probably from what she could tell once beautiful, fit to belong to a queen, but now it was torn and old, and the only person who would willing wear it, was her. But she could imagine how it must have looked, all sequined with jewels and gold. She also had a shawl, which once must have been beautiful as well. But now, threw use and wear it was starting to fringe along the edge; even though she tried her hardest to keep it intact. Next was her skirt, and once again it must have been a wonderful thing to behold, it overlapped in the middle and once must have had a design on it for she could sometimes, in the light make out a faint pattern. When night fell, she would light a candle, and dance, and pretend that she was a princess.  
  
Imagination she sometimes thought was the only thing that kept her alive some days. For with out it she would be forced to succumb to the realities of life, and if she did that, if she ever looked at the big picture and saw just how desperate she'd become, she would surly go insane, and die. So that is the reason that though out all the hardship that she faced, that she would face in her life time, how ever sort or long it may be, she would always have her imagination.  
  
So because she was too proud to become a concubine or a whore she was forced to steal. It wasn't all that bad though. She found a nice abandoned place that had a beautiful, view of the palace, and it looks like whoever lived there before her had taken good care of the place. Whoever lived there before her also looked like they had left in kind-of a hurry, considering they left everything behind.  
  
'Oh well' thought the girl when she had time to sit and ponder about such things. 'Maybe they died' she would think on her worst days, 'died a horrible, awful, gruesome death' and on her better days she would think that maybe this was were the sultan had lived before he became, well sultan. After all they do say he had once a long time ago lived on the streets, like her. And then on some days she wouldn't really care why the person had left because she was too worried about finding a way to feed herself.  
  
But she was thankful, thankful that who ever had lived here before her did leave their possessions because to tell the truth she wasn't that good of a thief, the thought of being caught stealing candles or anything of such value sent shivers down her spine. Thoughts like 'what if I was caught; I'd be put in the palace dungeon for life, and starve.' One of her worst nightmares was sitting in a dark little hole, whittling away to nothing while the rats ate at her flesh. She shivered, the day she landed on the street she swore that she would never ever starve. That was why she was thankful for who ever had lived there before her, because they had left her candles, candles to create light, and for that she owed this person her fear, fear of darkness that sometimes consumed her, until she lit one of those candles and it remained her that no matter how dark her world get, there would always be light.  
  
***  
  
To be continued....... 


	2. The Girl

AN- Years later and I'm back to writing this story. Can't say I know where all that time went. If any of my old reviewers are still out there I just want to say thank you. This story, well it's defiantly a work in progress. Chapter two is finally up and I feel a huge sense of relief—its been sitting on me for a long time. Enjoy chapter two!

By the Gods she was hungry—taking a peek out the window to see if the late nighters were still wandering the streets; she knew it was time to go out there again and risk her head for a bite to eat. Stupid poverty. Her stomach growled and she tried to quiet it, "hush" she said, "don't want the guards to hear us, then we'd really be in trouble."

A few more hours, that's all. She would only have to wait until then to get some food in her stomach; thank Gods, because if she had to wait much longer her stomachs belly aching might give her away.

She slowly rose from her place at the furthest end of the room that looked out on to the street and padded over to the opposite wall that looked out, through the gapping hole in her huddle, at the palace. Ever since she found this place the palace had enchanted her; though it had been almost five years since she had stopped dancing she still thought of what a nice thing it might be to live in a place like that—with lights that never burned out—they haunted her dreams.

Many nights she spent awake—looking, waiting, watching, but the palace lights never burned out, never. Not like hers—they had burned out long ago. With those thoughts she drifted into a restless sleep.

_Running, running, running, she ran and ran, and the lights of the palace guided her, she had to get there, to him, had to save him, warn him, help him, something, anything. He was in trouble, stupid boy, stupid man; he'd get himself killed for sure this time. She ran until she couldn't breath and kept running, ran until her legs were numb and kept running, running running running running; but the doors stood in her way, they were always there—pull, and tug, and kick—she did it all, the doors never opened----_

Awake, she was awake—the panicky feeling slowly subsided. Panting, look around the room, assessed herself— it was only a dream, just a dream. She had that dream, every night, on and off for a few years now and it freaked her out. She had this feeling when she was running that it was towards something which would kill her—yet she kept going because her dream self knew there was something more important then her life at risk, only she didn't know what it was. When she woke it was that feeling which drove her to panic; she could feel her heart beating as it had done in the dream and it always took her awhile to catch her breath. That dream, she did not know why she had it, but there was something different about it, the girl in the dream was not her and yet it was.

Sometimes, if she had nothing else to do she would sit and try to recall certain parts of it, what color was the door, what did the walls look like, in an attempt to analyze it. Every time she thought of it though, something would grip her chest, a cold hard feeling of dread, just like the dream—eventually she stopped thinking of it all together and when she had the dream, on nights like these, she would put it from her mind as quickly as possible. She didn't have anyone she loved that much—to sacrifice her life for them, the thought was preposterous---and yet, maybe not so mad after all. The thought was quickly wiped from her mind as she looked out the window and saw how late it had gotten into the night.

Shit, what time was it, 'I can't believe I fell asleep, stupid, stupid, stupid.' She thought after the shock form the dream had worn off. She silently cursed herself and crept over to the window; there was always a time, once a week or so when it was safe to steal, every Sunday the patrol guards had the night off and they would most all be passed out on ale from when the moon hit mid point in the sky to just before dawn. If she missed her chance she would have to risk the daylight hours. Even though her thievery skills had improved she'd rather not risk any body parts today.

Just last week she had managed to get her hands on a few coins to _buy_ herself some food (how she got the coins is another matter entirely, it is really not her fault if some people were just plain careless with their money, leaving it on the counter while a shopsman, too busy tying to sell something took no heed, the person too busy looking at what the man was trying to sell to notice when their change purse suddenly disappeared. Was it her fault if she had quick hands? By the time the buyer and the seller had realized their loss she was long gone, smiling all the while over her fortunate bout of good luck). When she saw three guards holding down a boy; couldn't have been older than nine, or ten—unfortunately she knew exactly what was about to happen. He was going to lose his hand for stealing, curtsey of the saber of the leader of the guards—smug grin, fat full belly, smelly, with his greased back hair—they're all the same.

'Turn around' the sensible voice in her head said, 'you don't see anything, just turn around and keep walking'. She tried to, really she did but she looked at the boy, then down at the change in her usually empty purse and made up her mind taking a deep steadying breath she mustered up her nerves and marched up to the leader of the guards.

"Excuse me, excuse sir," the guard startled from the act he was about to commit turned around quickly. "I would like to know what crime this boy is being punished for" she said, trying her hardest to look and sound like she had any kind of authority to stop him.

"Well madam, you see this, street rat was caught stealing," said the guard, looking put out at having to explain himself.

"How much"

"How much madam?"

"You heard me, what is the monetary value of what this boy stole"

"Why?"

"How much?"

The guard paused for a second before answering, as though assessing how much she could be worth, then with a small nod, as though he'd made up his mind "16 silver pieces" The guard said with a grin. Much to much, there was no way that boy could hope to get off with that much food, the guard was going to cheat her out of what little she had left; the money in that pouch could have lasted her weeks if she was careful; son-of-a…

"16 you say, ok" She then, trying not to make it too much like she might be giving her life away, hand steady, emptied her purse.

The guard and the shop owner, who until then had stood mute exchanged two malicious grins, then, the Lead Grease Ball (guard) motioned for his two comrades to let the boy up. She swiftly took the boys hand and led him away.

"Are you ok?" she asked once they had turned a corner and were out of earshot, and sight of the patron and the guard. The boy looked at her kicked her in the shin, and before she could mutter an explicative he had pushed her to the ground and ran, by the time she had gathered her bearings enough to realize what just happened he was gone.

'Little brat' she thought. 'I just saved his life the least I expect is a thank you and good day.' Slowly she stood back up, shook her head and dusted herself off.

She slowly made her way back through the streets of Arabia both hungry and exhausted. She heard a tussle coming on in front of her as a boy, was being held down by two guards, the third, standing over him with his sword ready to cut off his hand. There was nothing she could do. The boy was begging, the guards were laughing and the people of the town had gathered around to witness the spectacle and see it play out. There would be no one to step forward for a thief she knew, and right before the blow fell someone jostled into her; she tripped and fell just as the sword came down—the hand landing right in front of her nose. So startled, she skidded back, the crowd, laughing and talking, the guards letting lose the whimpering boy, now one hand short, and herself, on the ground, the bloody stump of a hand lying a few feet away. After that she couldn't go out, she stayed inside and starved a little, anything was better than that. She still, now more than a week later she flexed her hand every now and again, just to make sure it was still there.

She looked out on the streets below, all seemed quiet, and up at the moon, toward the horizon, the sun had not yet begun to rise. She had time. Breathing a sigh of relief she quickly gathered her pouch, knife and black cape. Walking on to the rooftop she grabbed a long board, slowly and quietly she pushed it across her roof, to the one adjacent. Using all her strength to make sure it didn't fall on the way between. She then carefully began to walk across it. Even though she had this hundreds of times before it still unnerved her, the fall was far with nothing below to break it. But, like every other time before she made it safely across—now all she had to do was pull the board the board back across the other way, make her way down the outside winding staircase this building had, slip past the bar with the sleeping guards, and pick the lock of the bakery. 'Breath, you've only done this hundreds of times before, just breath, you can do this,' she flexed her hand; just checking she still had it and hurried on her way.

Picking the lock was the hardest part. It took the longest, and the door wasn't exactly cloaked in shadow.

She had to eat tonight. The adrenaline rushing through her was almost more than she could bare. Her hands were shaking and her breathing was coming fast. The thought of being caught was with her more than ever before tonight. The hand, all she could see when she closed her eyes was that hand, formerly attached to a little boy, now probably some dogs dinner. All she could hear was his whimpering in the quiet of the night. It sounded so real she could swear he was there beside her—in the darkness.

'Just pick the lock' all she had to do was pick it, get in and get out. The night would be over with before she knew it and her stomach wouldn't be so empty anymore. All she had to do was get through this night, she knew and the visions of the boy and the hand would disappear—she hoped.

Click, the sound of the unlocking door, to her, was audible in the night air, and she, in an almost panic scanned the area but it one else had heard it but her. Breathing a sigh of relief she slowly pushed open the bakers door. She knew the man who owned the shop would be waking soon. The bakers were always the first to rise.

The smells of the bread drifting up to her in the morning and her stomach would wake her with its growling. Not tonight though. Tonight she would have food. The baker didn't throw away his stale remains of the day; that would make it too easy for her and others like her. He instead burned them to ash in the morning fire.

As carefully as she could she started to take what was left from the previous days sale. Shoving it all in her pack. She needed to make sure she had enough. Her pack was full and she turned to go, when, out of the corner of her eye she saw something, someone; hand on her knife, she didn't want to hurt anyone if it was unnecessary. Once she saw him, she heard him and wondered why she didn't before. Breathing— the sound of his breath was there, as was the sound of her heart thumping in her chest. She knew she'd have to make a run for it. It was the only way out. She bolted, like a dart and didn't bother looking back. Her bag of semi-stale bread beating against her shoulder with each step—she ran.

Her feet pounded on the streets; into alleyways she ran, leaping over heaps of garbage and piles of rubble until her pursuers foot steps no longer sounded behind her. Panting, hands on her knees, doubled over and gasping for air after her delicious run away from sure decapitation. Her hand clenched and relaxed.

Looking around her she knew she would have a long trek back to her bed. The walls reached high, with no widows, and the alleys twisted and turned. At least no one would be able to find her in this maze. But she had gotten away and as tired as she was that thought was a happy one.

The now heavy pack on her shoulder reminded her she was successful. The pack fell from her shoulder to the ground, too tired to pick it up she decided to let it rest there awhile—looking over her shoulder one last time to make sure no one had followed her. Stretching her spine as she emerged from the bend she let her bag fall off her arm and on to the street. She went to reach for it—bam; she is suddenly on the ground with no clue as to how she got there watching someone else take off with _her _bread.

"Not again" she mumbles, jumping up, 'here we go'.

The alleyways were dark this time of night; easy to hid in and her thief could have easily darted down one and she might have passed right by him—with the alley's tall mud brick walls and twists and turns. Either she was very good at chasing him down or he was very bad at hiding. He ran straight, as though he wanted to be caught. Kept to the light and before she knew it she had caught up to him.

Once she was within tackling distance she brought him down. It was her food. She'd stolen it fair and square, risked her neck in process, and would be damned if she was going to let this person take it away from her. She took him down.

Both landed in a heap of arms and legs, limbs tangling together, grunts and curses muttered as each tired to gain the upper hand. The bread sack went flying, its contents escaping its hold, scattering it contents everywhere, rolls, buns, and croissants—all her hard work, dirtied by the street, all because of the person who was now lying, firmly trapped underneath her.

Both of their hoods had fallen off in the scuffle; she was going to punch him, and would take some modicum of pleasure out of it too. She wanted to kill him but would settle for just breaking his noise. She looked down; she wanted to see whose face she'd be breaking. His face, his noise, his hair, his eyes, she had never seen such a blue in all of her days—gasping she scrambled off of him, backing herself into the alley wall, falling down.

He was the prince, this man was the prince and he was trying to steal her food? She shook her head, no way, there was just no way, he couldn't be, he wouldn't be, but the resemblance, so strikingly familiar, and yet, there was something off about his appearance, 'too skinny' she thought, 'he's much too skinny.' She almost immediately regretted backing off of him, there was, after all, no way he was the actual prince of Argiba.

"I'm sorry," he said, holding out his hand to help her off the ground. She blinked owlishly at him, then his hand, not entirely certain what to do.

"That's…ok" She said, not sure what action she should take now, she _was_ going to knock the stuffing out of the punk who dared to try to steal from her, but now, well, that punk had suddenly and unexplainable turned into a remarkable replica of the prince and he actually apologized, 'I'm sorry' were words she didn't think had ever been directed at her. She gripped the still outstretched hand and he pulled her up off the ground.

"Again, I'm sorry," he said as she dusted her-self off. "I don't know what came over me. I saw that bread roll," he said motioning with his head to the fallen food, "sticking out of your bag and I was just so hungry and, well." He looked sheepish, and scratched his head in an uncomfortable manner. "Sorry," he said again, eyes on his feet, not looking at her face.

The urge to run was lessening by the moment. 'There was no way this could be the prince' she thought with an inward grin, 'no way. The prince would never be starving on the street, forced to the lowest form of life, to steal another's hard won act of theft, no way in hell.'

She thought for a minute of what she was going to do now and with an inward shrug of her shoulders she said, if a bit reluctantly "If your hungry, all you had to was ask, my name is Jaden," she said, holding out her hand in a sign of greeting. He took it, paused for just, maybe, a moment too long and said,

"Kale," inhaling deeply he said, "Kale, my name is Kale."

She smiled, picked a piece of bread off the road, "Need a place to sleep Kale" Jaden asked, holding the piece out to him, not knowing if it was the right thing to do but this prince look-a-like did look remarkable pathetic, just standing there, his gaze still pretty much focused on the ground. 'It can't hurt,' she thought to have another's presence and company in her life, even if is was only for a little while, plus, he needed her, if he planned on making a career out of this he was going to need some major help.

He gratefully took the bread from her hand, "A place to sleep would be wonderful," Kale said, mouth full with the piece a bread he had just shuffled in, "Thank you."


End file.
